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The sacred bells rang in unison.
On every continent. In the magnificent cathedrals of the capital, in tiny rural temples, in monasteries built atop inaccessible mountains, and even in underground chapels beneath the great cities.
One deep toll.
Then another.
And another.
Millions of people looked up at the same time.
It was not a call to prayer.
It was a divine summons.
The statues of the gods began to ooze a dark liquid that stained the altars. Priests collapsed to their knees upon the stone floors.
And then the voice echoed inside the mind of every believer in the world.
"To preserve the world..." A chilling pause sent shivers through the masses. "...the Harbinger must die."
The name soon manifested everywhere: etched into the stone of cathedral halls by itself, written in blazing characters upon sacred scrolls, and branded into the steel of blessed weapons.
Lusian Douglas of Mondring.
The Enemy of Humanity.
The Flesh-and-Blood Harbinger.
No one demanded an explanation, nor was there any doctrine to justify it.
The gods had spoken.
And for millions of devoted followers, that was enough.
The news crossed borders faster than any army could march.
The ecclesiastical institutions reacted immediately. Every temple opened volunteer registries. Priests drew up conscription lists. Forges worked without rest. Strategic granaries opened their gates, and stables were requisitioned.
The knightly orders summoned their banners. Monasteries dispatched their warrior ascetics. Bishoprics began financing armies of mercenaries.
In the squares of kingdoms, a word that had been buried in oblivion for generations began to echo once again:
Crusade.
This was not a conflict between two kingdoms or a clash along ordinary borders.
There would be no single banner.
Each nation would march beneath its own colors. Every order would retain its heraldry. Every hero would lead their own followers.
Yet they all shared a single premise:
The total eradication of Lusian Douglas.
Soon, the Heroes began to gather.
One.
Two.
Three.
Until there were twenty Chosen from different corners of the world.
Legendary warriors. Archmages. Saints of the faith. Hunters of primordial beasts. Elite assassins.
All had received the same revelation:
Execute the Harbinger.
Some arrived leading entire legions. Others came with nothing more than small elite entourages.
Nevertheless, as they gathered in the forward camps, one truth became undeniable to all of them:
Lusian Douglas was not a target that a small group could bring down.
He had survived the apocalypse.
He had crushed abominations capable of wiping cities off the map.
He had fortified an impregnable territory in the middle of the chaos.
And most dangerous of all...
the Douglas clan would march with him until the very end.
In kingdoms where the Douglases had made enemies for generations, the news was not received with religious fervor.
It was received with dark satisfaction.
One noble family dusted off an ancient mahogany box.
Inside lay the portrait of an ancestor executed by the black lion's swords.
The patriarch stared at the painting for several seconds, running his fingers along its worn frame before allowing a cold smile to cross his face.
"Finally."
In another rival duchy, a noble summoned his heirs to the armory.
"Our grandfathers died waiting for this moment," he said, drawing a greatsword scarred by the passage of time. "Today, the Douglas bloodline will pay for every drop of blood."
A third House sold half its lands to finance entire battalions of mercenaries.
They had no interest in saving the world, nor did they care about the gods' doctrine.
They wanted revenge.
And the Church authorities had no intention of refusing their gold or steel.
As long as they marched beneath the divine dogma, personal motivations were irrelevant.
Thus, entire armies began to take shape.
First, there were thousands.
Then tens of thousands.
Within weeks, hundreds of banners bearing countless coats of arms covered the royal roads.
The sacred summons had assembled a military force that no kingdom, no matter how prosperous, could have mobilized on its own.
Armored knights.
Levy soldiers.
Veteran mercenaries.
Warrior monks.
Provincial militias.
Beast hunters.
Zealous believers and pilgrims armed with whatever they could find along the road.
And behind the iron vanguard came an immeasurable tide of civilians: blacksmiths, field medics, servants, merchants, and entire families convinced they were marching toward the ultimate victory of the faith.
More than one hundred thousand souls eventually became part of that horde.
A genuine traveling city advancing steadily along the northern roads.
And at the head of that enormous tide...
the twenty Heroes.
The saviors chosen by destiny.
The warriors called upon to execute the monster threatening the balance of creation.
But there was something none of them understood as they marched triumphantly forward.
The enemy they were approaching was not waiting submissively or cowering in fear.
He was turning his duchy into a strategic slaughterhouse.
And the Douglases had already closed their gates.
On the other side of the continent.
Marcos was twenty years old when he left his village.
He wore no heavy armor.
He carried only an inherited sword, a wooden shield reinforced with iron bands, and a bedroll packed with three days' worth of rations.
Before setting out, he had visited the Temple of the God of Earth.
The elderly priest placed two fingers against his forehead, and an ochre-colored light coursed through his body.
"The God has granted you his favor."
Marcos opened his eyes.
His body felt denser.
More grounded.
It was not a formidable blessing. It would not allow him to split mountains or summon magic capable of annihilating entire battalions.
But it granted him superhuman endurance, a more powerful strike, and the unmistakable sensation that his feet were anchored to the stone like roots.
For Marcos, that was enough.
"Where should I go?" he asked.
The priest pointed toward the valley road.
"Toward the capital."
"And after that?"
The old man held the young man's gaze with solemnity.
"When you reach its walls, you will know."
Marcos did not understand the riddle, but he began walking.
On the first day, he traveled in complete solitude.
On the second, he encountered six men heading in the same direction: a farmer wielding a pitchfork, two mountain hunters, a broad-shouldered blacksmith, and two young men who could barely manage the weight of their swords.
All of them shared the same whisper inside their minds:
The Harbinger must be executed.
Marcos joined their march.
By the third day, they numbered seventeen.
By the fourth, more than fifty.
By the fifth, the march slowed to a crawl.
The royal road was overflowing with people.
Supply wagons.
Warhorses.
Armored knights.
Priests carrying censers.
Servants.
Mercenaries.
Entire families carrying provisions on their backs.
"Are you marching to the capital too?" Marcos asked a squire.
The man nodded silently.
"Everyone is going there."
Marcos looked back.
The column stretched into the distance, winding between the hills.
For the first time, he realized that he was not part of some pious pilgrimage.
He was marching in the bowels of an army.
As the days passed, more factions converged upon the main artery.
Every village contributed new banners.
Some wore polished steel.
Others carried farming tools adapted into makeshift spears.
Some displayed arcane blessings etched into their skin.
Others possessed no armor beyond their fanaticism.
The tide grew with every league.
One hundred.
Five hundred.
One thousand.
Two thousand.
When they reached the final hills overlooking the metropolis, Marcos froze before the horizon.
The entire plain lay buried beneath a living tide.
An endless human current surged beneath the heraldry of the faith.
"How many men are down there?" he whispered in awe.
A militiaman beside him gave a nervous laugh.
"They say we've passed ten thousand."
Marcos swallowed hard.
Ten thousand souls...
And that was only the levy from a single kingdom.
In the distance, the capital's imposing towers emerged from the mist.
The cathedral bells began ringing violently.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The crowd answered with a deep roar that made the hillside tremble.
"For the gods!"
"For humanity!"
"For the divine light!"
Marcos raised his blade toward the sky alongside the crowd and shouted with them, swept away by the frenzy.
He did not know that, in every corner of the known world, countless other columns were converging toward the same destination.
Thousands of men.
Tens of thousands of soldiers.
Fierce knights.
Converts.
Fanatics.
All advancing beneath the same divine decree:
Hunt down Lusian Douglas...
and erase him from existence.